


Show the World We Got It All Right

by learnthemusic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Ass Play, Barebacking, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Louis, Engagement, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Photo Shoots, Post-The X Factor Era, Romance, Smut, Top Harry, Wedding Planning, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:39:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learnthemusic/pseuds/learnthemusic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We could’ve done it at home, if you’d really wanted to.” </p><p>Thing is, Louis didn’t want to. Not that bad. Not when the idea of doing engagement pictures at his favorite golf course made Harry prance around their lounge in nothing but a skimpy pair of old pants and a muscle tee. </p><p> <br/><i>Or: Harry and Louis are getting married in six months. Their engagement photographer valiantly handles interruptions, until quite frankly they get out of hand. Cue Harry in clothes that remind Louis way too much of the sixteen year old boy he fell in love with and Louis in a turtleneck thanks to a suspicious set of lovebites that weren't there when the photoshoot began.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Show the World We Got It All Right

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, asteriaseren2010, for being such a wonderful enabler, beta and friend! This is for you <3
> 
> Title from Sara Bareilles' "I Choose You." If you haven't seen [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjE5D9cHiOk) where she goes around proposal-bombing with a serenade of this song, you should.
> 
> This wasn't supposed to happen yet, but Sam gave me an engagement photoshoot prompt right before New Year's for when I had the chance. And I was very inspired in the last few days, so I churned it out. Thanks to [this tumblr post](http://asteriaseren2010.tumblr.com/post/106343145949) for giving us the idea. Such beautiful pictures of the boys <3

* * *

 

They could have done this anywhere.

They could have done this at a studio. Sony. Louis’. Any of the ones they’ve spent significant time in.

They could have done this in Los Angeles, where Harry has a house that overlooks a canyon and spreads far in all four directions and holds memories like the time when Ernie and Doris said their first words.

They could have done this at the house they bought together two years ago, where Louis first asked Harry to marry him with one knee digging a hole in the sand and the Atlantic Ocean spraying saltwater up Harry’s back. Where Harry said “no” as an awful joke and Louis’ heart sank because he couldn’t have possibly got the previous six years wrong. Where Harry immediately pulled Louis up like a rag doll, crushed him to his chest and pressed dozens of kisses to his face, all the while muttering so many yeses that Louis could hardly even remember what he was agreeing to, let alone that he’d tried to tease Louis with a rejection that lasted all of five seconds.

But Harry chose the country club. The country club that means almost nothing to Louis and maybe three thousand things to Harry.

“I cannot believe we’re doing this,” he mumbles haughtily from the passenger seat, curled up in joggers and an old Rovers hoodie, beanie low over his ears and a suspicious soreness in his thighs. Lou and Caroline are meeting them, so it’s not like he feels particularly bad about turning up this disheveled. They’ve seen him in worse states — like, in absolutely nothing at all and no idea what to put on.

But Harry’s driving in four thousand pound boots and a Marc Jacobs shirt he still hasn’t managed to outgrow — a miracle really, because he spent the first four years of their relationship going through different sizes like Louis’ sisters went through jars of makeup — and Louis maybe feels a little underdressed.

“What, the shoot?”

Louis snorts. “The golf course, plonker."

Harry punches Louis gently — always gentle, this one, even when Louis is being an insufferable arsehole — and says, “We could’ve done it at home, if you’d really wanted to.”

Thing is, Louis didn’t want to. Not that bad. Not when the idea of doing engagement pictures at his favorite golf course made Harry prance around their lounge in nothing but a skimpy pair of old pants and a muscle tee.

(Louis might have had to push him down to the ground and give him a blowjob for that.)

But Harry doesn’t need to know just how sappy Louis is.

“Why, so you could hold it against me for the rest of our lives?”

Harry squawks. “I am offended you would think so poorly of me.”

Louis pats his leg. “’s all right, babe. You’ll make it up to me.”

“I’ll have your children.”

Louis groans. “We have discussed this so many times, Hazza — it is physically and scientifically impossible for you to —”

“Never say never, babe.” Harry winks then turns back to the road.

Louis is in love with an idiot.

It probably makes him one, too, wanting to marry said idiot, but that’s neither here nor there.

 

&&&

 

Harry parks right in front of the grand entrance, where five steps lead to the portico and four columns hold up a beautiful balcony wrapped in iron. The house’s facade is built in smooth, tan stone and it stands out dramatically against the lovely blue sky overhead. It’s so utterly obvious to Louis that the nineteenth-century feel of this country home is what enchants Harry the most about Shrigley. It embodies his love for everything Cheshire offers — the grandeur, the remoteness, the familiarity of the old.

He’s only been here once before, four years ago when Harry dragged him along to an awful game between him and Niall, but he’d hardly paid attention to the building. The grounds were so vast to him then, stunningly green and spreading over almost 300 acres that showcased lovely views of the Peak District woodlands. He could hardly focus on anything else, taken up by the horizons and the vague idea that he could plunge off the edge of the course straight into the forest.

But now he’s got this illustrious mansion that looks like it’s straight out of an Austen and —

“You’re such a romantic,” Louis teases, unbuckling his seat belt and leaning over the centre console to pinch Harry’s cheeks.

He doesn’t even try to deny it, no bashfulness whatsoever as he gives Louis a cheery, “Yep!” and then steps out from under his grasp and out of the car.

Louis follows but drifts off to the lawn when Harry stops to talk to the valet. The scenery is as breathtaking as he remembers, full of rich purple flowers and verdant trees. The lake at the bottom of the hill reflects the puffy white clouds and Louis wouldn’t mind rowing a boat across its smooth surface.

“Everyone’s here,” Harry calls from a few feet away, hanging back and watching warily as their Mercedes is driven back down the winding road. He might actually be attached to that one, though he refuses to admit it. It’s not very special but Harry gets that way about even the Audis they buy.

Louis fights back the surge of affection that overcomes him as he strolls over and is successful enough that he’s only showing half the usual amount of teeth when he takes Harry’s hand. Harry still wrinkles his brow and asks what he’s so happy about, but Louis just shrugs him off.

There are some things Harry is better off not knowing — every bug that ever caught him as a kid, every fight he ever had with Stan, and especially every sappy feeling that ever tugs at his heart. He wants Harry to retain the image of the foolish romantic in their relationship, thank you very much.

 

&&&

 

“Three things,” their photographer says, one camera hanging from his neck and the other held in his pudgy hand. He uses stubby fingers to count off. “One, have fun. Two, be yourselves. And three, for the love of God, try not to love each other too much. It looks bad in pictures.”

Harry’s about to respond, his brow furrowing and lips forming his first word, but Louis doesn't even let him start talking, just reaches over and smacks him in the crotch.

“Louis,” Harry groans, bending over to soothe the ache in his dick. It’s not the kind of groan he makes when he’s above Louis, pounding into him mercilessly, or the one he sometimes uses when they’re on the phone and horny for each other from countless miles away. It’s the one Harry reserves for when Louis is getting on his nerves, and Louis thinks he loves it as much as the others.

Harry shoots a glare up at him through curls that have come loose over his forehead, but the intensity of it doesn’t quite translate when a hat is tumbling off his head and bopping him in the nose on the way to the ground.

Louis glances at their photographer, who’s blinking at the scene before him like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He can’t blame him — he and the rest of the boys have always proven to be a challenge in front of the camera. It’s only got worse since he and Harry started doing shoots just themselves all the time.

“Was that the right kind of fun?” he asks, smirking. “Because dick punches are kind of my mode of — HEY!”

Harry has a palm full of Louis’ bum in one hand and his hat in the other. His fingers squeeze around the rough denim so tightly that Louis can almost feel his fingernails on his skin, and when he looks at Louis with a challenge flashing in his eyes Louis has to gulp hard past the sudden knot in his throat.

Didn’t take long to get themselves into a compromising position after all. Already Louis’ dick is stirring with interest, even more so when Harry darts his tongue out across his bottom lip and gives Louis’ arse a parting pat before he draws away.

The photographer clears his throat and Louis nearly jumps out of his skin.

Right. Engagement photos. They have to do that.

 

&&&

 

“It’s been eight years, Lewis, you can’t still be — Lou — Goddamn it — Fucking QUIT TOUCHING MY NIPPLES!”

Louis snatches his hand back and rolls in his lips, eyes wide and playing the victim in the picture of innocence that’s working for him. At least he hopes it is. “You’re looking a bit nipply, though.”

He should have known better, because Harry’s nostrils flare and the next thing Louis knows, Harry’s taking advantage of Louis’ focus on being cheeky to tackle him into the ground. A camera shutter clicks away in the distance, rapid fire and way too similar to the paparazzi that used to follow them around when they were just kids, but all Louis can really pay attention to is the way Harry’s white silk shirt feels under his fingertips. Soft, just like him.

Louis beams up at him, ignoring the dampness of the grass seeping through his own silk shirt, and strokes his thumbs down both sides of Harry’s neck. “Hey,” he purrs.

Harry’s arms tremble from the ground up. He’s balancing all his weight on guitar-rough hands and not letting a single bit of his weight rest on Louis’ body, his bottom half barely grazing against Louis’ slacks. At least one of them is concerned about the state of their clothes. Caroline’s probably smiling with pride from the golf cart, where she and Lou have been following them around with their stash of outfits.

Harry’s such a suck-up.

“You’re horrible,” Harry whispers back, but Louis can tell he doesn’t mean it. His eyelids are droopy and a dimple is peeking from the folds of his skin. Harry looks like he does when Louis coaxes him out of bed on Sundays with the smell of a fry-up — which he’s got pretty good at lately — wafting in from the kitchen.

Louis surges up to kiss him, a chuckle puffing against Harry’s cheek when Harry lowers himself infinitesimally to catch it. “You love me,” Louis murmurs, then he unceremoniously shoves Harry off with a hand to the chest, scrambles to his feet and dashes off in the opposite direction of the photographer.

He’s not sure who’s going to get the chance to kill him first — Harry, for not taking their photoshoot seriously, or the photographer, for forcing him to do the most cardio he’s done in at least ten years.

 

&&&

 

Outfit number three has Harry in a tight blazer and plain white t-shirt and Louis in form-fitting trousers and suspenders, because Caroline hates them and Lou likes when they’re dressed like babies. Maybe she needs to get a new one.

He will make the best of the situation though. Harry looks every inch the boy Louis fell in love with and it’s immeasurably charming. Kind of makes him feel eighteen again, blinkered by Harry’s wit and so very confused about how to proceed.

Louis brushes dust off Harry’s shoulders then cups his face in both hands. Scrunching up his nose, he coos, "Well aren't you so cute?" because the best defense is offense, and he needs to make Harry play along.

Harry grimaces. "I could sweat through this, you know. And we'll have armpit stains in our pictures."

So much for cute. Louis rolls his eyes. “We aren't in LA anymore, babe. It's April in England, you’re gonna be fine.” He releases Harry with a kiss to the cheek and a slap on the bum. “Be a good lad, now."

"You're mean," Harry pouts at him, but he walks backward to the door, eyes glued to Louis’ body. He's supposed to be going over poses with the photographer but Louis figures he must be just as distracting in his own outfit.

Louis shrugs cheekily, letting Caroline fasten an old brace on him. "Tough love, babe."

Harry flips him off and spins on his heel, leaving in a hurry.

"No more complaining!" Louis calls, a grin splitting his face. "I'm in braces again, you dickhead! We will suffer together!"

"You know he requested these outfits, right?"

His breath catches. Of course Harry did. Louis’ fiancé is a sodding sap.

Louis throws his smile over his shoulder at Caroline and all of a sudden it's like they're all back on tour, goofing around backstage and giving everyone a hard time. Only part missing is the rest of the boys.

"I know," he says, and if Caroline thinks he sounds like a lovestruck teenager again, at least she doesn't say anything about it.

 

&&&

 

The toilet door hasn’t even shut before Harry’s crowding Louis back into the golden damask-gilded wallpaper and caging him in with his arms. It’d be kind of funny, the way Harry thinks Louis might escape if he didn’t hold him down, if it weren’t so damn hot. His nostrils are flaring, his eyes are glazing over and his lips are twisting with how much he wants to say. Louis doesn’t let him say a word, just pushes up and attaches their lips, his arms going around Harry’s neck so he can angle his mouth just the right way.

Harry’s fingers move with finesse over Louis’ belt, when Harry’s familiarity with the number of notches Louis uses makes it so much easier to get naked in risky places, years of practice in situations just like this one coming in handy.

It still takes Louis’ breath away just how well this man knows him. Every inch of his body and fleeting thought in his brain, like they’re his own and it’s his duty to nurture them. Louis doesn’t know how he got so lucky.

Harry tears his mouth away with a ragged breath and instantly attaches his lips behind Louis’ ear. His hands are warm and heavy on Louis’ slender hips, his crotch nestled tight against him, and Louis doesn’t have it in him to stop the groan that claws out of his throat.

“Sure no one’s gonna come in here?” he manages, words clipped and interrupted occasionally by the slick sound of Harry’s tongue swiping over Louis’ neck.

“Hmmyeah, shuddup.”

Louis swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing under the crease of Harry’s lips, and clutches both his hands in Harry’s hair. There’s no way Lou won’t know what they’ve been up to when they see her after this — Harry’s hair gel loosened, Louis’ quiff wrecked, all their makeup smeared along each other’s faces with sweat. She used to deal with this kind of thing all the time, back when they were barely past twenty and still convinced blowjobs and fucks were good luck before shows.

There’s something erotic about her figuring it out. And Caroline too. Them knowing how passionate he and Harry are, how fun their sex life is.

God, he’s ridiculous.

Shuddering, Louis arches his back farther and tilts his head to the side. Harry’s always been so good at taking Louis apart with his mouth. Louis loves it so much. “Living on the edge, innit?”

“Shut up, Louis,” Harry grunts, words muddled by skin but clear as can be to Louis’ ears.

It makes Louis smile, and he opens his eyes and pulls Harry's face up with a hand on his chin and a glint in his eyes. “Make. Me.”

And Harry growls, hands that had stilled their undoing of Louis’ trousers now buzzing with energy, nails scraping on skin as they push away clothes and Louis’ giggles dying on the bow of Harry’s lips.

Louis’ cold down there now and he wants to say something about it, but Harry’s teeth have latched onto Louis’ bottom lip and his body is pushing Louis flush against the wall and, god, Louis can’t breathe without Harry.

After a minute, he slips both his hands down to Harry’s chest and forces him off, arms’ length of space between them and Louis’ cock bouncing freely, just so he can observe how wrecked Harry really is. His lips swollen, pupils dilated, skin flushed, and his mouth hanging open, tongue darting out to lick away some spit and —

Louis wants a picture of that for their mantel, not of them posed with their arms locked together but of the very reason Harry ruined Louis for anyone else. The way he looks every time things get heated between them, like it’s just as good as the first time and like it will never stop losing its shine.

“Louis.”

He yanks Harry back in, foreheads pressed for a moment as he looks at Harry’s eyes from up close. Harry blinks rapidly, tears shifting around behind his lashes, and Louis can’t resist placing a kiss on each of his eyelids before he starts trailing more of them down his nose, over his lips and the jut of his chin.

Harry’s fluttering against him, fingers twitching and hips thrusting and throat moving insistently under Louis’ touch, the most anxious he’s been around Louis in a long time. And Louis only wants to make it worse, sticking a hand into his trousers and scrabbling for his dick. It’s hot in his palm, delicious in weight and stickiness and the way it twinges with Louis’ attention.

A sound catches in Harry’s throat, something like a whimper and a sigh mashed together in a plea, and Louis lifts his head to take Harry’s lips back. He can feel Harry’s desperation in his tongue, in how it immediately slips into Louis’ mouth and refuses to back out. Louis would never want him to.

If he thinks hard enough, he can remember what it felt like when they first started, the hesitation and raw desire and the amount of time they spent just looking, cataloguing, memorizing. Louis could close his eyes, call up the year they met, and see a Harry whose face was fuller and curls springier, who was about an inch shorter than him and never knew what to do with his big hands. Then he could open his eyes and see Harry eight years later, jaw chiseled and eyes greener than ever, five inches too tall and hair that actually cooperates when he tries hard enough, and hands that have toughened, grown confident in their place on Louis’ body.

They’ve seen so much of each other that they should be bored — but the lust is still there, unquenchable and all-consuming, and Louis is going to marry Harry in six months and have him for the rest of his life.

Louis loses track of a lot of the things that happen next. It all goes in a blur, Harry writhing in his grasp and shoving Louis hard, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him dazed. There’s Harry stripping, Harry removing the top half of Louis’ outfit finally, Harry gripping onto Louis’ arse cheeks and forcing their bodies together. A gasp fills the small space between them but Louis doesn’t even know who it comes from. All he knows is he wants Harry to do something, and all he can do to guide him along is scrape his teeth across Harry’s clavicle, every nerve ending in his body firing away with arousal.

Harry groans above him, the gravel of his voice filling up Louis’ ears, and he’s frustrated enough that his arms go taut along Louis’ sides, his nails leaving marks in Louis’ cheeks. Louis would yelp if Harry’s sweat didn’t taste so good. The saltiness of his skin collects on Louis’ tongue and the farther down he goes, the sharper the flavour gets, and he loves it.

So he lets Harry do the rest of the work. Lets him suck on his earlobe and massage his bum, lets him trail a hand down his thigh and hitch a knee up over his hip, lets him put his other hand under Louis’ tongue. Louis doesn’t even need to be told to lick every digit, because Harry’s hands have been his favourite things in the world for years now. He gets them slick and sloppy and lets the pinky go with a pop before he’s reattaching his mouth to Harry’s collarbones.

He lets Harry slide fingers inside him as he chases Harry’s taste, lets him drag him closer by the thigh and balance him against the wall. The toes of Louis’ left foot are beginning to cramp where they’re anchoring him to the ground, but he chooses to dwell instead on the searing slide of Harry’s fingers, rough and smooth all at once. Lets Harry open him as desperately as he can, whimpers building in his throat and heat pooling in his belly.

Maybe they should have at least waited to get to their car, where a stash of emergency supplies sits in the glove compartment and the back seat offers a nice place to lie down under the protection of tinted windows. Maybe they could have waited until they got home, even, and Louis would have bridged the gap by sucking Harry as he drove, confident in how steady a driver Harry is when he wants to be.

Either of those options would have been more sensible, because now Louis is going to have to strut around the golf course for the next hour or so with Harry still there inside him. No way the photographer won’t capture it, either, with how glazed Louis’ eyes get when Harry fucks him good.

It’ll be obvious to the entire world — and if their publicist’s plan holds up, a substantial bit of the population will see these pictures — that Louis couldn’t keep himself together around Harry in white pants.

“Haz,” he gasps when Harry lets go of his mouth to plant kisses on his cheek. His fingers are still deep, the angle making it a little more difficult to find Louis’ prostate (not that Louis’ cock has a preference, since it’s already nice and wet pressed between their bellies). “Everyone — will know — you —”

“That’s the point,” Harry says — and it’s a growl that punches Louis in the chest and has him heaving in Harry’s arms, sinking farther onto Harry’s fingers.

So this is purposeful, then. Like the many times Louis did the same to him when they were younger, hopeful nobody would miss the claim he made on Harry Styles. Louis can brook no further argument, just offer up a breathy, “Dirty boy,” and squeeze his own arms around Harry’s neck.

Harry staggers back then and brings them over to the porcelain sink, fingers falling out of Louis’ arse with an obscene noise and Louis’ foot dragging behind him. Louis is pretty sure Harry will fuck him right on the edge of it, his feet digging bruises into the small of Harry’s back and his arms straining with the effort of not sliding on the smooth surface. They’ve done that before, in opulent theatre halls in London and private nightclub loos alike.

But Harry drops Louis’ other leg to the floor, grabs him by the waist and spins him around instead. Louis clutches onto the edge by instinct, five seconds away from collapsing on the floor, when Harry releases him. The sounds of him slicking precome up and down his cock sends a violent shudder scorching up Louis’ spine, and he hangs his head with the force of it, a low keen ripped from his throat.

He has to screw his eyes shut as the burn worsens with Harry’s first thrust inside Louis. It’s not like he has to make much room — they got pretty heavy this morning, the alarm sounding at seven, Harry hard against Louis’ hip, Louis climbing on top and pushing himself until his thighs burned with the effort — but it stings, and Louis throws a hand back in search of anywhere on Harry’s body that he can pinch.

Harry gasps and wrenches Louis up by the shoulder, fingers unrelenting as Louis tries to bend back over. He slings his arm down and holds him close, knuckles white with the force of it, anchor tattoo faded but stark in comparison.

“Look,” he growls in Louis’ ear, and Louis’ dick twitches as he snaps his gaze to the beveled mirror. He doesn’t see distinct features of himself, glosses over the pink cheeks and sweaty forehead in favor of the man standing behind him. Harry’s hair is curled like when he was 16, and his eyes are cloudy and green, and his teeth are scraping white lines up Louis’ neck. He’s sinful, all golden skin from their trip to Fiji and taut muscles from his dedication to the gym. Muscles that ripple next to Louis’ slighter frame as he starts thrusting in earnest.

“At yourself,” Harry insists, teeth snagging on Louis’ earlobe. “Want you — to see it.”

Louis’ not sure what he’s looking for — if it’s the utter lack of resistance in his own muscles or the puffing of his cheeks with every breath Harry punches out of him. He sees how pliant he’s become, how much he’s left himself at Harry’s mercy with heaving chest and undulating hips.

He hears Harry murmur “beautiful” but he doesn’t see his lips form the word, eyes shrouded now by pleasure. Harry’s so thick and Louis can’t focus on anything that isn’t the image of him ramming into Louis from behind, curls swinging wildly and everything so frantic and bold.

But Harry keeps talking, things like “perfect for me” and “wanna be your husband” and “forever.” His words slur together, syllables morphing into consonants and pitch lifting to the vaulted ceiling. Louis doesn’t tell him to shut up because it’s dazzling to him that Harry needs Louis to know this stuff right now, even though they’ve been repeating it for eight years and will hopefully do so for at least another sixty.

Louis doesn’t notice that he’s stopped drawing in oxygen until Harry tells him, “Breathe, babe, c’mon,” and he gasps, eyes flying open to find his hand fumbling at his dick. He squeezes tight at the base, afraid he’ll come that second if he doesn’t, and valiantly meets Harry’s gaze in the mirror.

All he does is blink and nod and Louis lets himself go. The adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins is pushed out by his orgasm, replaced by a heavy relief that leaves him weak, and he groans, doubling over with Harry’s left arm seizing around his chest. Harry tips down too, hitting Louis’ prostate a few more times before he comes.

That’s when Louis, breathless and hot and hardly thinking straight, sees their reflection again, only this time it’s much worse — Harry bent over him, panting, and his ship and mermaid rippling on his glistening arm; Louis crammed against the fancy sink, come dripping from the curvy letters of his chest tattoo and purpling teeth marks dotting his right shoulder where Harry bit down. They’re destroyed and it makes something give in Louis’ chest, makes him lick the sweat off his top lip and budge Harry up so they can readjust and snog already.

Harry crowds him again, their spent dicks rubbing and Louis’ arse clamping tight when his lower back hits the now warm porcelain of the sink. One of Harry’s hands slips over Louis’ side and down to his bum, and his index finger glides easily between Louis’ clenched cheeks, teases over the quivering hole it finds there.

“Such a pig,” Louis whines as he fails to escape Harry’s hold. The bastard just chuckles low into Louis’ mouth, takes advantage of his relaxed muscles to stroke more fingers along his crack.

Harry’s honestly lucky Louis loves him so much — and that he gets some pleasure out of this too, the thought that he belongs to Harry really getting to him today. Probably the whole engagement shoot thing.

There’s a pounding on the door at that precise moment. Harry’s hand flies away guiltily, like he’s just been caught at the biscuit tin, and Louis can’t contain the huff of laughter that stutters out of him at Harry’s pout.

“You better not come out here in anything less than what we put on you!” Caroline shouts from outside.

“We should probably tell her,” Louis whispers conspiratorially, his hand tracing along Harry’s jaw and thumb brushing away the wetness under his eyes. Harry goes redder than before and immediately tucks his face in Louis’ neck, where the skin still prickles from Harry’s love bites.

“Uh-uh,” he simpers, and Louis laughs some more, tickling behind Harry’s ear with his nose. Harry can be forceful when he’s fucking, but he’s even more docile when it’s all over, and all Louis wants to do is bathe him in kisses and soft caresses.

Maybe it’s not just one or the other. Maybe they’re both utterly, insufferably mushy.

Louis remembers to call out, “Be right there!” only when Harry sinks his teeth back into his collarbone. He sounds suspiciously high-pitched, but it doesn’t matter, really. They’ve all encountered worse.

 

&&&

 

Less than an hour later, they’re trailing after their photographer in complementary outfits that have Louis in a fucking crimson turtleneck. Caroline had forced the offending garment over his head, Louis’ shrieks of disapproval falling upon deaf ears as she cursed him and sputtered words like, “You should be fucking grateful I remembered to plan ahead with you two,” and “you’re both such fucking messes when you’re horny.”

Harry, meanwhile, had been able to slip on his silky, heart-stamped Saint Laurent top with a much tamer verbal flogging that amounted to barely more than a light clip round the ears.

Louis’ still mentally thumbing his nose at the injustice when they pull up by the lake for their final round of photos.

“So I wanted to try Louis sitting on Harry’s lap over there,” the photographer says, turning around and pointing vaguely at a weathered retaining wall. “I think with the sun beginning to set, we’ll get some good shadows...”

“I don’t think you know,” Harry mumbles low in Louis’ ear, reeling Louis close with an arm under his suit jacket, “what your turtlenecks do to me.”

Louis stumbles. All he can do is sink into the solid line of Harry’s torso and blink coyly up at him. “Yeah?”

Harry’s answering hum and eyebrow waggle prompt a hushed giggle, then he yanks Louis closer still. “Proves there’s something to hide.”

He should kick Harry for being so infuriating with his ill-timed compliments and overt signs of possessiveness. It’s not like there’s anyone around posing any kind of threat. But it doesn’t surprise Louis at all that his cock is interested in the phrases Harry’s spinning. Harry’s raspy voice always does that to him. Grinning, he pushes up on his tip toes and leans over to brush their lips together and —

“I know you two are crazy to get home,” the photographer interrupts. Louis jerks back down and looks over to the blushing burly man standing by the burgeoning liatris. “But can you please heed my advice about not being too in love right now? We’re about to lose light and these pictures would look perfect if you’d cooperate.”

He sounds like one of their old handlers, beseeching and hesitantly firm, like he has no right to speak to them in such a tone. Louis feels bad — the man’s just trying to do his job and Louis has spent most of the day thwarting his efforts.

He gives Harry a soft peck on the underside of his jaw, mumbles a “behave,” and takes three wide steps away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. The photographer looks relieved. “What is it you want again?”

 

&&&

 

“We should listen to Fizz more, I think.” Harry’s voice filters in from their en suite, warm on the breeze coming through the open window. “She knows how to pick photographers.”

Louis grunts in agreement from his place on the bed but he’s distracted, swiping eagerly across the smooth glass of an iPad. The pictures took a month to come in but they were worth the wait — brilliant in colour and composition. He still can’t believe he got Harry to canoe with him across the lake. They both look so happy in their oversized jumpers and matching beanies, splashing freezing water at each other and otherwise making a mess of the entire shoot. It was dark by that point, the picture is mostly shadows, but it’s unmistakably them.

“’s my favorite,” Harry says around a mouthful of toothpaste some moments later. Louis turns his head sharply, hadn’t noticed he’d come up. Harry smiles, foamy and somehow still bright. “Look good on your knees.”

Rolling his eyes, Louis looks down at the photo he just stopped on. The first thing he notices is the angle, camera pointed up from near Louis’ feet so that the focus is on his and Harry’s joined hands, the silver band Louis bought gleaming in the centre. Then he notices Harry’s face, for the most part hazy but he can’t miss the tenderly upturned corners of his mouth. Louis knows the expression from years of exposure and it’s staggering seeing it frozen in time.

He’s not sure how long he stares, but it’s enough time for Harry to finish brushing his teeth and return with the same smile gracing his features. He kneels up on the edge of the bed, takes the iPad from Louis with one hand and turns his face up with the other.

Whispering, “Gorgeous, you know that?” he thumbs gently along Louis’ jaw.

Louis sighs and nuzzles into the touch, kisses his cool palm. “Not like you,” he lets slip, if only because Harry’s sickeningly sweet and Louis’ defenses are practically nonexistent when he’s completely starkers.

It’s not because he thinks the same thing every day of his life and it’s not because Harry’s words make his heart swell with their underlying promise of forever. It’s definitely not because Harry awakens in him this hopeless romantic.

(Except maybe it is. And maybe when their wedding comes in October, it’s a marriage of two sappy buggers who have never been able to keep their hands to themselves.)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing! I'd love to hear your thoughts <3
> 
> I'm [insideasinkingboat](http://insideasinkingboat.tumblr.com/post/109013781775) on Tumblr, and still very confused about how I've managed to write two smutty as hell fics in one month. O_O


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